


Master of My Fate

by smoakmonster



Category: Beauty and the Beast (2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Blindness, F/M, Healing, Scars, Soulmates, alternate beginning, but still unsure, in which the prince is kind
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-15
Updated: 2018-01-15
Packaged: 2019-03-05 10:19:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13385772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smoakmonster/pseuds/smoakmonster
Summary: After the Prince is kind to the old beggar woman one winter's night, she offers him a gift that will change his life and lead him to his soulmate.





	Master of My Fate

**Author's Note:**

> Based on this prompt from @rhaedarofworlds:
> 
> an au i thought of after reading about finding our soulmates using marks or timers, that if the prince was a good man and let the old lady have some warmth in winter she would have rewarded him with the rose to find his true love, and thus to find Belle (just a thought)

He is in the middle of a minuet, when the doors of the ballroom fly open unannounced, rain and howling wind spewing like a plague into the room uninvited. All the lights go out with a rustling hush, encasing the large space in eerily calm darkness. The music stops, and the entire ballroom goes still, as he turns his head towards the mysterious intruder.

Playing the part of the avaricious noble, the prince snaps his fingers and holds out his hand for a light to be brought to him. As he slowly approaches the strange, hooded figure, crouched in the shadows, the figure soon lifts its head, revealing the face of an old, desperate woman. Her body is shriveled with age, worn and fragile, her face covered in deep wrinkles. And yet, these stranger’s eyes seem to draw him in; her eyes are youthful and soft and...beautiful.

 _What is it you seek?_ the prince finds himself asking, though, to his surprise, he does not hear his own voice aloud. It’s as though this strange woman has pulled his very thoughts from his mind with the power of a single look.

 _I seek shelter from the storm_ , her eyes whisper back to him.

Taking in her appearance--from her drenched hood down to the tattered ends of her cape--the prince sighs deeply. But feeling the oppressive crowd of onlookers at his back, he forces a derisive smile and chokes out a haughty laugh, the sound stinging his ears, poisoning his heart.

“Oh, I’ll give you a place to stay,” he scorns, grabbing the old woman’s cloak, hauling her to her feet and pulling her through the ballroom as quickly as possible. He hates himself a little with every punctuated step, feeling the weight of his fellow aristocrats’ judgmental eyes. Thankfully, his guests part for them as easily as a sea, keeping as far from the beggar as possible.

As they pass into the entryway, he nods to Chapeau, who graciously closes the doors to the ballroom behind them with a loud clang. Safe from the prying eyes of his peers, the prince releases his tight grip on the old woman with a heavy sigh.

“Lumiere,” he calls to his friend in yellow, “please escort…forgive me, I do not know your name.”

“Agathe,” replies the old woman.

“Miss _Agathe_ to the East Wing. She is our guest for the evening and...for as long as she may need shelter.” He ignores the way Lumiere’s eyebrows jump with astonishment, turning his attention back to the woman in question. “If you require anything, my servants will attend you.”

She bows a short but respectful bow, as low as her feeble bones can seem to carry her.

The prince marches back towards the great doors of the ballroom, his silky ostentatious, heels echoing against polished tile and bouncing off high ceilings, filling the silence. Yet as he reaches the door, her voice halts him in his tracks.

_Why not tend to me yourself?_

He stills, a chill he cannot comprehend slipping down his back, shaking him to his core. He spins to behold those stern yet somehow soft eyes once more, unsure if he’s heard her voice in his head or if she has in fact spoken aloud. Lumiere and Chapeau’s lack of reactions are of no use to him.

“Well,” he begins, but in this next moment, he feels his thoughts being effortlessly pulled under her spell again, confirming his suspicions. _Because Cogsworth will consider it improper. Because the last time I did this, I became a monster. Because the mask could start to fade at any moment._

He swallows, feeling exposed--despite the heavy layers of paint covering his face--and helpless--despite this castle and all who live here--and...strange, like his soul is being ripped right through his skin under her severe gaze. No one has ever looked at him so intensely and yet so compassionately...not since his mother. Something sparks inside his heart--something so warm and unfamiliar that he doesn’t recognize it at first. Trust. He _trusts_ this stranger; he can hardly fathom it, but he does. Inexplicably, he feels he _must_ be the one to escort this woman to her room.

He clears his throat, bracing his arms behind his back, while decidedly avoiding eye contact with any of the staff. “Very well. Follow me.”

It takes them nearly half an hour to reach the east wing, given Miss Agathe’s trudging, weary pace. His companion is silent but steady for the entire trip, her thin, discolored fingers clenched tightly against the fabric of his jacket. And yet, if he’s being honest with himself, he likes the somber ease her company brings. She is exactly opposite of everyone at the party...or any other party this castle has ever hosted, for that matter. And yet, the prince senses an untold strength beneath decades of wrinkles and a shriveled posture. She is strong in her own quiet way.

“May I ask you a personal question, your highness?” she asks aloud suddenly, just as soon as he’s ushered her into her private suite.

He barely has time to consider her abrupt manner impolite--or the fact that she’s actually speaking to him aloud again, now that they are alone.

Despite his trepidation, he answers, “Yes.” His heart hammers nervously against his chest, wondering what she could possibly ask that cannot be plucked from his mind unwillingly.

“Why do you throw parties that you do not enjoy?”

He starts. Whatever private matter he was expecting her to pry into...it certainly was not this. Yet he finds he cannot lie to her. “Because I…I have a part to play, I suppose,” he resolves despondently. “Someone has to give this palace a purpose, a reason to keep living, something to look forward to.”

“You do not look forward to them.” It’s not a question.

“No, I confess, I do not. But it’s all I know. And it keeps my staff occupied and content. I certainly could not expect them to look after me the rest of my days for no reason.” He grimaces at his own sardonic little joke.

“Could you not?” she boldly asks, dropping into the nearest chair. She is certainly persistent, this strange figure from the night. Still, he already likes her company more and more by the second. She is far more engaging than any of his other guests. He hasn’t talked with anyone like this in…well, perhaps ever.

He swallows. “No, I could not.”

They fall into an easy silence, as the prince paces the room and wanders over to the only window. His eyes linger on the flicker of lightning in the distance. He’s suddenly dreading the idea of having to leave this quiet sanctuary and return to his guests, return to playing the role his father’s been forcing him to play for years. Even from the grave, his father still holds power over him.

Another jolt of lightning fills the sky, and the prince flinches against a cold, haunting memory. It’s the only memory of his father he recalls with perfect clarity. He hears himself screaming as his father sends yet again for that poor whipping boy, as his servants--his _friends_ \--try to come to his aid, but his father pushes them away, dismissing their kindness. But this night is different. This is the night he changes forever, in more ways than one. Somehow, in his trembling, fearful state, he musters enough courage to fight back, to push the whipping boy out of the way and endure the angry beatings himself. He shuts his eyes against the stinging tears; icy, burning claws sink into his back, dragging skin, blistering the surface. Over and over. It seems the pain will never end. Until it does. Until the damage is fully done.

He makes the mistake of looking back at his father, thinking that it’s all over.

But his father sees something in his eyes--some foreign goodness, some childish pleading; to this day, he never can figure out whether it was his desperation or hope for mercy that drove his father over the edge--but it’s enough to unleash the monster one last time, earning him his final, permanent scar and becoming the very manifestation of his father’s monstrosity.  

The prince flinches again and rubs his forehead, the familiar sharp throbbing coming back, pounding behind his eyes.

“You know, I am a wish granter,” the old woman interrupts his dark thoughts.

To be honest, he’d almost forgotten she was even there. How long has she been watching him? Can she sense the conflict, the inner turmoil he can never seem to shake away?

“Are you?” he answers cheekily, lowering his hand, keeping his gaze fixed on the tempest outside. “Perhaps you should have brought better weather. Surely someone in the kingdom has wished for that.”

“I’m prepared to make an exchange.”

“Exchange?” he turns to regard her, intrigued.

“In return for your gracious hospitality, I could grant you a wish.”

The prince shakes his head. “What could I wish for? I have everything I could ever need.”

“Do you?” she challenges.

That gives him pause, but still he presses on. “I have food and shelter and...friends. I have more than most. What could you possibly offer me?”

The old woman regards him for a long while, and it takes every ounce of self-control he possess not to fidget under her severe gaze. She looks at him like she can see straight into his very soul. Perhaps she can.

“Let me see your face,” she says at last.

“What?” he gasps. He’s prepared to offer her anything her heart desires--shelter, money, connections… But _himself_? No. It is too much. It is far too much.

Feeling more like the frail and frightened boy of his youth tonight than he has in long time, the prince takes a heavy step away from her. And another. He retreats as far as the west wall of the room will let him move. No matter where he goes, he cannot escape her unrelenting, patient gaze.

Finally, after what feels like hours of hopelessly waiting for her to retract her request, the prince sighs and sags against the wall, feeling the weight of his bottled anxiety drain out of him, leaving his body cold and trembling and all the more weak.

“You will not like what you see,” he whispers, avoiding her eyes.

“How can you be sure? Would I be so unkind as to cower at the face of my benefactor?”

He huffs a short laugh. He’s been many things to many people over the years, but _benefactor_ has never been one. If only his father could see him now.

“Your father cannot see you anymore,” she utters, startling him once again, jarring him to the core of his being. Yet something in her words also rings true within his racing heart, a perfect harmony vibrating with his soul, filling him up with warmth from the inside out, giving him _peace_.

His mind still wrestles, struggles against her suggestion, and he has to physically restrain himself, working to repress every childhood instinct he’s clung to since that day his father first struck him.

Something soft whispers to him to be still. Something firm keeps his feet planted, keeps him from running from his fears. Perhaps, just once, it could be worth it, to reveal himself to a stranger, to be vulnerable...to be known. And for once it might be grand to have someone understand...understand _him_ completely.

He glances across the room and notices for the first time the wash basin in the corner, the bowl filled with water reflecting the amber glow of candlelight. Has the water truly been there all this time? Or has his mysterious guest summoned the final means to erase any barriers between them?

Either way, he sighs in surrender and finds himself trudging towards the bowl, his legs weary from dancing, his body worn from years of deceit weighing him down.

Too soon he’s standing hunched over the bowl. The water beneath him is a dim mirror, reflecting back at him a face he hardly knows. The opulent layers of gold and blue paint coat his skin, _hide_ his skin, and make his eyes appear darker than usual. All he sees when he looks down is a stranger, no trace of himself concealed beneath the monstrous mask. And wasn’t that always the point? It’s been ages since he’s allowed himself to look at a mirror and really _see_...see the creature his father created.

And yet…is the hollow creature looking back at him now any better?

A rush of anger floods his veins. For the first time, the prince feels the oppression of his disguise, and he hates it. He hates his father for it. He hates the world he has to live in for making him feel he had no choice but live half-alive, inside a cage of his own making for so long.

Without ceremony, he removes his coat and tosses it onto the nearest chair. Keeping his back to his guest, he breaks every rule of decorum as he slips his fingers beneath the wig, slowly pulling back the heavy hairpiece, his regal albatross, before tossing it also onto the chair. He feels a hundred pounds lighter as he rolls back his sleeves, takes a deep breath, and begins scrubbing his face.

The chalky ink clings to his skin against the bitter cold water, fighting to come off. Still he scrubs and washes and wipes and spends an embarrassing amount of time splashing water onto his face, drenching his waistcoat.

The closest cloth is made of silk, and, while the fabric does very little to absorb the water dripping down from his hair, he appreciates the smooth, soothing texture rubbing against his skin. He pats his skin for quite a while, hoping to soak up every last drop, delaying the inevitable.

Finally, with a heavy sigh, he plops the damp cloth back onto the table and slowly turns around.

He’s unsurprised yet alarmed just the same to find old Agathe still calmly waiting in her chair, her back straight, her eyes following him intensely. He’d been half-expecting (albeit, secretly hoping) to find her passed out asleep from exhaustion or perhaps vanished back into the night as quick as she appeared out of it.

Yet there she sits, every patient, every watching. He cannot escape her gaze now.

Under her scrutiny, the jagged scar running across his forehead and down his cheek _burns._ He flinches against the sharp sting of his father’s whip that burns him to the bone once more, fissuring his flesh wide open, as if the blow were happening right now, all over again.

He breaks into a sweat, his heart pounding into a gallop, as though it wants to fly right out of his chest and escape the coming onslaught of judgment.

Not since his father’s days has he felt such panic flood his veins. He can barely think against the war his body rages against him. His ears drown in a sea of sirens; his hands tremble; the corners of his vision blur. And it’s only until he feels his knees weaken that he finally realizes what’s happening to him… Desperately, he reaches for the corner bedpost, clinging to it like a lifeline, keeping himself upright, prolonging the torment.

Does she see the agony overtaking him?

Or is she too fixated on the long, deep, ugly mark that twists corners of his face into ugliness? Most people are.

Of course he’s never reacted this way to anyone other than his father before.

Then again, he’s never allowed anyone other than a handful of staff to _see_ him like this before. He’s certainly never let a stranger look at him like this.

Eventually, miraculously, his heart slows to its normal rhythm once more, and he finally dares to face her head-on and true.

He starts again, this time with relief.

Her gaze carries none of what he anticipated. He sees no anger or disgust...or even pity.

Instead, her eyes are open and strong, filled with curiosity, perhaps. And kindness. So much kindness it nearly knocks him over.

Torn, he hears something gentle and patient beckoning him out of the pain, even as the twisted darkness inside him screams and fights for him to cower and hide and return to the shadows.

He listens to her gentle request and dares to turn his head completely forward, to let her soft eyes examine every unwanted crevice in the best and brightest light possible.

The minutes tick by in silence as she studies him soberly. And when he feels he’s tortured himself long enough in the silence--whether it’s been hours or merely seconds, he can’t really tell--he takes a step back. “Well then, Wish Granter, what do you think?” His voice is hoarse with ache. He clears his throat tries again, aiming for humor to escape the uncertain agony. “Perhaps you could do something about…” He waves in the general direction of his face.

That finally gets a reaction out of her, and her lips twitch with the hint of an admonishing smile. “Oh, you do not really want for the scar to be gone.”

He huffs. “Do I not?”

“No.” She shakes her head. “You want someone to accept you as you are. But in order for that to happen, young prince, she must first _see_ you as you are.”

He swallows, averting his eyes. “That remains unlikely to happen...for the foreseeable future.”

“Well, wearing a mask in public hardly helps your cause.”

“It helps _me_ ,” he cries, his anger surging, taking him by surprise, shaking him from the core of his being. “Do you have any idea what it’s like--” He stops, suddenly worried he’s offended her; his gaze darts back across the room to catch hers. She merely tilts her head, wearing a sympathetic grimace. Yes, of course. By all appearances, she must have some idea.

The anger wells up and dissipates in the same breath, leaving him drained...and ashamed. In the uncomfortable silence that follows his outburst, the prince’s words echo inside his head, and he hears them for what they really are. The words of his father.

He winces, wishing the very floor beneath him would swallow him right up. All these years, he’s feared the chastisement of strangers, and yet that very temptation to fall into hostility resides within him as well, lingering just below the surface, just within his grasp.

Perhaps his isolation has made him callous.

Perhaps evil is inescapable.

His father’s curse will never stop haunting him. It wasn’t enough that he took over his life. Now, even from the grave, he demands his cowardice. No. He won’t allow his father continue to wield that kind of power his soul.

“Forgive me...” he breathes. The words suddenly feel very heavy, pressing down on his chest, and it takes him several tries before he’s strong enough to utter a full sentence. “I’m not used to… Apart from the staff, you’re the only person who’s ever…” He doesn’t know how to go on. Thankfully, he doesn’t have to.

“Seen you as you truly are?” she kindly supplies.

His lips twitch. “Quite.”

“Well, even with the mask, I see you.”

He chances another glance at her, pleased to find a small smile on her face mirroring his own. She looks years younger, healthier, when she smiles. He wonders how often she’s had the chance to.

The idea of being _seen_ on any other previous night would have left him terrified. But now, after everything he’s just endured, her words give him a strange sense of hope. At least one more person in the world has seen him and not been repulsed by the mark he bears. Perhaps her generosity will be enough to last a lifetime.

Agathe stands, and he frowns when he notices that she doesn’t appear to be faltering as she was before. She’s suddenly carrying herself with ease and grace.

Her voice is stronger, too, as she says, “And because you have been brave and did not conceal yourself from me, I shall conceal myself from you no longer.”

Her words have him standing up a little straighter, bracing for something pivotal, though he’s not quite sure what. Until she lowers her cloak.

A powerful bright light suddenly floods the room, its very heat knocking him to the ground with an other-worldly force. Holding a hand to his eyes, the prince squints against the severe, blinding light, as vibrant as the sun, seeping into his very skin. Soon enough, the light fades, but a new warmth remains in the room.

As the prince lowers his arm and rises to his feet, he starts, losing his balance and nearly falling back down.

 _Impossible_.

In the place of Agathe stands a young, very beautiful woman with long, golden curls, draped in a shimmering gown. Who is she? And what happened to Agathe? The prince glances around the room, unsure if this a dream or if he’s truly losing his mind. He opens his mouth to question the new stranger, and yet…something in her expression stops him. Those eyes. They draw him in as they did before. Her eyes are the same, filled with kindness and just a bit of humor.

Suddenly, the idea that this woman is indeed a Wish Granter no longer seems so exaggerated. If she can transform herself like this...what else is she capable of?

“Oh…what are you?” he asks when he finally finds his voice again.

“That is a very long story,” young Agathe replies. “Very few have had the privilege of knowing who I truly am. And even less have seen me under such...pleasant circumstances. I should warn you, this story might have gone very differently had you behaved differently towards me tonight.” She smiles, as though she’s making a joke, as though she’s sharing a secret, a secret he cannot comprehend. “But you needn’t worry, young prince. I am still your old beggar woman underneath all of this.”

“Why do you hide yourself from the world?” Someone so beautiful should not spend her life hidden under the disguise of a old beggar. It seems...wasteful. He doesn’t understand it.

“I could ask the same of you,” she says, stunning him once more.

“Surely...the answer is the obvious.” When she merely raises an eyebrow, reading him so keenly, the prince sighs heavily. Defeated, he answers quietly, “This face. What woman could want to see this all her days? A delusional one, perhaps.”

“A woman who is not deceived by appearances. After all, true beauty is found within. That is my first gift to you.”

He shakes his head. “Save your magic for someone worthwhile.”

“I have saved it especially for you.”

“Why?” he demands. “Why me? As I told you, I have no need of magic.” _I do not deserve it._

“Hmm...your heart suggests otherwise.” He doesn’t have to time to inquire whether she’s responding to his words spoken aloud or the ones just rattling around inside his head. “You are lonely. You seek companionship, and yet you know that you will not find her among these guests you for some reason feel bound to entertain.”

Agathe looks almost indignant, and he nearly laughs. But then, something she said strikes him. “ _Her_?”

Agathe nods as though it were obvious. “Your soulmate.”

He huffs. “I do not believe in soulmates.”

“Do not lie to an enchantress, young prince. I have seen into your heart.”

He runs his hand through his hair, uncaring about the state of his unkempt appearance. In Agathe’s presence, who would dare to compare or try to match her majesty anyway? “Have you?” Now it’s his turn to sound indignant. “Are you not terrified?”

Patient as ever, Agathe merely calmly replies, “I have seen many hearts, and I can tell you that yours in strong. Stronger than you give yourself credit for. Don’t be afraid to show her when you find her. You will not see her until she sees you.”

Everything she’s saying...it sounds too good to be true. Everything she’s offering is so contrary to anything anyone has ever offered him. He paces the length of the bed, uncertain, skeptical. How else can he protect himself from undue pain? Still, she’s provoked his curiosity. “How will I find her?”

“That is the second part of my gift. You, young prince, will not find her. She will find you. With this.”

Out of nowhere, Agathe pulls forth a ruby red rose encased under glass. “The petals will keep falling until the moment your souls meet.”

Cautiously, the prince accepts the rose. “And then what will happen?”

She smiles, a mischievous twinkle flickering in her eyes. “Then the real adventure begins.”

 

* * *

 

“This should only take a few minutes, sir,” Lumiere offers as he hops out of the carriage to assist the driver with getting the wheel re-affixed to the axle properly. Apparently a basket of laundry spilled into the road and caused their carriage to lose balance. _Laundry. In the middle of the road!_ What sort of ill-mannered place is this village?

Earlier this week they were in Paris, and now they’re wasting time trapped in a small village when they should be almost near the castle by now. He at least hopes to arrive by nightfall, in time for one last extravagant party. He only has a few days left to find her. He can feel it. He can _see_ it clearly--just three taunting, wonderful petals remain on the wilting rose.

Since the enchantress left no instructions, no map, and no direction on how to find the woman he was supposedly meant for, the prince has been devoting himself to his new mission of finding his soulmate. As skeptical as he was to the idea at first, he’s found himself growing more and more desperate with every petal that fell. Despite Agathe telling him that _she_ \--whoever she was--would be the one finding him, he could hardly sit idly by and wait to be pursued by a random woman. How would he know her when or if she did enter his life?

If there is someone out there who will accept him as he is, why shouldn’t he use all the resources at his disposal in the hopes of finding her, even stumbling upon her?

And so, against his better judgment, he continues to throw lavish parties and simple parties, because they allow him to socialize beneath a disguise. Recently, he’s expanded his invitations to all people in his land, from lords to peasants. He’s danced with every woman who has entered his castle. And he’s begun visiting the local provenances, hoping for just a chance encounter. And still, the petals kept falling.

After all these arduous months and _years_ , is it any wonder that he’s fallen into despair and lost all hope? Going to Paris on a whim had been a mistake. He’d known that from the start. But he couldn’t bare to spend his last few weeks all shut up and alone in that wretched castle, tormenting himself with false hope. Perhaps the enchantress had made a mistake. Perhaps his soulmate did not exist after all. For who could ever learn to love the face of a beast?

Impatient and weighed with exhausted, the prince throws open his carriage door and jumps down onto the dirt road, his long cloak trailing behind him. Carefully, he adjusts the hood of his cloak over his head, keeping his head low and bowed. Persistence isn’t the only trick he’s acquired thanks to Agathe, and there was no need to paint his face on the ride back from Paris. Not that this village is the sort of place for the mask he’s grown accustomed to. A painted face would only serve to draw more attention, rather than shield him.

He also adjusts the strap of the satchel, feeling the weight of the glass dome brush his leg.

Soaking in the fresh--albeit, slightly damp and musky--air, the prince takes his time perusing the quaint homes and bustling activities. People selling bread and ribbons and fish and...so many small trinkets that serve no purpose. And yet, this is how they must make their living. The more he studies it, the more he thinks this place may not be so bad. It’s actually rather pleasant. For a village.

Are all villages like this, and he’s only just now stopped to notice?

He becomes so lost in his daydreaming that he doesn’t notice the other body walking along the same path as him...in the opposite direction. He spins just as he collides with a small body with a thud, sending the figure tumbling to the ground, along with an entire basket of linens.

“Oh, forgive me!” cries a voice--female. When he glances down, all he sees is warm, chestnut brown hair cascading over small shoulders. He was too shocked to notice at first, but now that she’s bent on her knees scrambling around in the dirt to retrieve every scrap of fabric, uncaring about the state of her dress, he can see that, yes, she is decidedly a woman. From his position towering over her, she seems awfully small. And yet, she carries a quiet strength.

And, most importantly, she hasn’t seen him.

He sighs with relief before slowly hunkering down beside her, angling his head away, careful to keep the hood between them. “No, the fault is mine. I wasn’t looking where I was going.”

“Neither was I.” She laughs, though he fails to see what she finds so funny.

He reaches for the nearest linen and holds it out to her, but she doesn’t take it from his outstretched hand, so he places it into the basket instead.

They work together in easy silence, avoiding each other’s gaze, until all the cloths have been safely returned.

“I’m sorry if anything is spoiled.” He turns his head away just as he feels her eyes turn in his direction.

“Nothing that cannot be remedied,” she answers brightly, rising to her feet rapidly, and he follows her lead, pleased to see that their earlier collision doesn’t appear to have caused her any lasting damage.

Keeping his head down, he says to her feet, “May I escort you home?”

She laughs again. “Why? Do you know where I live?”

He huffs once, amused despite himself. Glancing back towards the carriage, he notices that Lumiere has now removed his coat and is wrestling with one of the wheels, while the driver is trying to control the horses. Seems they won’t be going anywhere anytime soon.

Oddly relieved, he turns back to her and manages to finally get a glimpse at her face. When he sees her, he gasps. She is so...beautiful. And yet in a way that is not pretentious or forced. Her beauty seems as effortless as breathing, as natural as a sunrise, as captivating as a rose. He also notices how she avoids looking directly at him but instead stares at something vague just over his shoulder. His carriage, perhaps.

Feeling both bound to help and drawn to her presence, the prince replies, “No, but I would be happy to assist you with your...laundry. Since I am the reason they ended up on the ground in the first place.”

“That is kind of you.” She smiles, but he sees it falter just a bit as she thinks over her next words. She still has yet to try to look at him, and he’s starting to wonder if this cloak is deterring her trust. But then, with a slight frown, she asks, “Do you see a house with a weather vane on top nearby?”

He looks around until he spots it. “Yes.”

“Good. That makes one of us.”

He spins back to her, noting the delicate smirk on her lips, and for the first time since literally running into her, his defenses come down, and he allows himself to really _see_ her. Suddenly all her little mannerisms make sense--the way she hovers alongside the building, the way her head keeps tilting, constantly readjusting to new sounds, the way she never really looks him in the eye.

She has not seen him yet, because she _cannot_ see at all.

All the air gets sucked out of him, as a rush of mixed emotions flood his veins. Shock. Awe. Confusion. And...disappointment?

But he hardly has time to dwell on those things. He’s offered her his assistance, and he’s going to follow through. Clearing his throat, he cautiously approaches her as though she were a doe, not wanting to startle her. It takes a little bit of coaxing and maneuvering, but eventually she surrenders her basket into his hands, and they stroll in harmony towards her house. He purposefully slows his movements down to match her pace.

A wave of protectiveness hits him. He’s so keen on watching her, on ensuring her safety, that he stumbles more than she does. She carries herself with such quiet confidence. And why shouldn’t she? She’s traveled this path a hundred times, its breadth and texture and turns etched into the very fabric of her being in way that goes deeper than eyesight. He watches her, fascinated, as she calmly but bravely keeps her hand outstretched, her fingers acting as her guide as they run along every rough brick, every plant, every post of every fence. She doesn’t really need him to steer her at all, he realizes. She’s simply being polite. Or perhaps she’s aching for the company as much as he is.

“Since I am taking you home, may I at least have the pleasure of knowing whose company I am in?”

“My name is Belle.”

“Fitting,” he mutters.

“And you sir? I don’t believe I’ve ever heard your voice around here before.”

“No, I'm a...traveler,” he answers, evading her true question to puzzle out his identity. But he’s not ready to admit that he’s a prince in disguise...and a disfigured one at that. These precious few minutes with her have been so...freeing. He wants to prolong the experience as long as possible.

Too soon, they reach her doorstep. Yet just as he’s trying to come up with a polite way to extend his visit with her, Belle graciously offers to let him step inside for a bit.

Shut up from the outside world inside her cozy little house should make him feel more crammed. But instead, the embers of the hearth and the sketches and paintings scattered along the walls fill him with comfort.

“Did you paint all these?” he asks, reaching out to touch the corner of an unfinished sketch of a pretty young girl. _Belle_ , he surmises.

“Me? Hardly,” she quips.

And of _all_ things, he suddenly feels a blush growing uncontrollably. How ridiculous. Blushing. In front of a blind woman. He cannot recall the last time he had cause to blush at all.

He shakes his head, folding his arms behind his back, falling back into hold habits of decorum to hide his discomfort. Not that there’s anything to hide from her. “Of course. How silly of me.”

“I invent things,” she admits.

“Really?” Intrigued, he draws closer to her. “So are you the one responsible for the other laundry mishap earlier?” _Are you the reason I’m here, in this village, in the first place?_

She giggles, and he’s pleased to see a small blush blooming on her cheeks. “You are quite the jester, aren’t you?”

If only she knew how very untrue that statement was. At least, until today, it was untrue. But something about her seems to effortlessly draw humor from the depths of his spirit; she makes him want to jest, to be the one who makes her laugh.

“Would you care for some stew?” she asks, moving to the fireplace to stir a small pot.

He nods and then remembers that she can’t see him. “Thank you.”

The fact that she is blind continues to startle him. He studies her movements, making sure she doesn’t accidentally hurt herself in the process, but her hands work with practiced ease and grace.

“Do you live alone?” he asks from across the room, perusing another batch of sketches tacked to a corner near the window, surprised at the depth of shadowing and elegance in each stroke. Whoever did these must be a true artist.

“No. But my father’s gone into town for the day to sell his music boxes.”

“I see. And he will not mind you entertaining a guest alone?”

“Not unless you intend me harm. Do you intend me harm?”

He spins at the sound of her voice suddenly very close, just behind his back. She is a quiet, yet courageous one indeed. “No,” he replies swiftly. _Not intentionally at least._

As she hands him the steamy bowl, his fingers briefly brush against hers, and she pulls away too soon. Her touch sparks something inside him he cannot comprehend. Nevertheless, he eats in quiet gratitude, surprised at how hungry he is, and the warm stew fills his belly wonderfully.  

“May I ask you a personal question?” Belle asks as soon as they’ve finished eating.

“Of course,” he answers, a knot forming in his gut.

Nibbling on her lower lip, tentatively she says to his shoulder, “May I see you?”

He frowns, even as he sets his bowl to the side and closes the distance between, wanting to make things easier on her. “And how would you see me?” he whispers.

“Like this.” Standing to her full height yet still many inches beneath him, Belle stretches her arm, her hand shaking slightly in way it was not before; for the first time, she’s reaching out to the unknown.

Again, against his better judgment yet obeying the cry of his heart, the prince comes to her aid, wishing to ease her struggle. She gasps when their hands touch, and she grasps his hand in between both of hers and slowly stretching out his arm now, up and up, inch by inch, until his fingertips graze her face.

She shuts her eyes contentedly as his hand takes on a life of its own, tracing her smooth canvas, mapping out every perfect curve of her face.

“Hm. Your hands are very big. And smooth. Which means you’re a nobleman. You have servants to do the heavy lifting for you.”

He stills and backs away. “Do you know, for a blind woman you are very perceptive.”

She smiles, as her eyes open and stay fixed on a spot somewhere on his chest. “So I’ve been told.” Her smile slips, and her eyes fall as she goes on. “When people actually take the time to talk _to_ me, rather than _around_ me. As if I can’t hear them. I may be blind, but I’m not deaf,” she muttes at the end a little bitterly.

And he can’t help but wonder if he’s the first person she’s ever admitted this to. Another surge of compassion and anger on her behalf swells in his chest. “I know exactly what you mean.”

She perks up just a little at his remark. “Do you?”

He swallows. “Most people talk about me as if I’m not even in the room, as if I’m…”

“Invisible.”

“Yes.”

He doesn’t like where this conversations has turned, so impulsively he picks up the nearest book off the small bookshelf and begins flipping through its pages as a distraction.

They fall into silence for a minute. Over the rustling of pages turning, brave and honest Belle eventually inquires, “What is it like?”

He lowers the book. “What?” _Being noble? Being alone? Being afraid?_

“Reading,” she supplies, startling him once more.

He shuts his eyes, all his simmering, irrational fears draining out of him. Of course. Of course that’s what she remains fixated on. Not who he is or what _he’s_ like--but on the simplest pleasures of life that he takes for granted every day. Surely someone has told her, though?

“Papa always reads to me,” she continues, closing the distance between them and reaching out to run her fingers over the pages of the open book. “And while I enjoy hearing the stories through his voice, sometimes I feel that I am missing something… There’s something magical hidden on these pages, isn’t there?”

It is sweet torture watching the wonder fill unfocused, yet deep, alluring eyes, the way she reverently runs her hand over lines of text that hold no meaning for her, invisible ink beneath calloused fingertips. He sees her falling under the spell of imagination, and yet she remains trapped,  lingering on the edge of the cliff, unable to swim, only able to drown.

And he understands what that’s like. He’s lived his entire life on the fringe of the world, just close enough to hear and smell and feel the oceanic spray, the livelihood of society, never able to actually dive in.

Something about her makes his heart beat wildly inside his chest with anticipation, as though it knows some unspoken secret, some answer he’s been searching for. Perhaps they can be each other’s vessels, carrying each other into other worlds. He can teach her how to escape and she can show him how to live.

“I can read to you, if you like,” he offers.

“Oh, would you? There should be a bookmark from where Papa left off.”

So they take their separate seats near the fire, and minutes easily bleed into hours. As he reads to her, he finds himself becoming more and more invested--not in the fictional story itself, but in the way he can tease reactions out of her, in the way she hums along and sighs during romantic descriptors and laughs when he changes his voice for each of the characters.

Towards the end of a chapter, he notices a bit of movement out of the corner of his eye. Deep in thought and yet attentive to his voice, Belle listens in stillness, while her hand moves in small circles. Keeping his voice even, his eyes dart back and forth from the page to her hand, following the patterned ebb and flow of her wrist. Until at last, he realizes what she is doing, a habit so natural to her there can be only one explanation.

“Why did you stop?” she asks.

He sighs, closing the book and bracing himself, wishing to be braver than he feels. And yet now that the idea has entered his mind, he cannot drive it out. “Belle? Would you paint my portrait?”

“What?” she starts and her hand goes still.

“You can paint, can’t you? I see all these drawings along these walls...” He glances around the room once more, just to be sure, but there is not denying the obvious. “I am no expert, but I’ve seen enough art to recognize that there are two very different artists at work in this house.”

If she could avoid his gaze, he expects that she would be now. As it is, her unseeing eyes remain fixed on her lap. “Yes, I can paint,” she admits quietly, as though he’s uncovered her darkest secret, and perhaps he has. Though why a blind painter would want to hide her gift from the world is beyond him. Her choice reminds him of Agathe.  

“But are you certain?”

“I think you may be the only one who will do it justice.”

She does not answer him for a long time, to the point that he wonders if he should withdraw his offer and leave or if she is going to just say no outright. But then she gives him the faintest of nods, and he follows her over to the easel.

There goes his heart again, pounding against the walls of his chest, beating at message at him that he cannot interpret. He hesitates, but then lowers the hood of his cloak and finally takes off the satchel.

“You may not like what you see,” he warns her, as she assembles a few papers and sorts through a box of pencils.

“I’ll be the judge of that. I rarely judge a book by its cover.” She smiles playfully, and he’s powerless to stop the smile that spreads over his own face.

But in the next breath, they both grow serious.

He tries to abate the panic that flares up inside as her hand rises to meet his face, her canvas. As the first fingertip lands on his neck, he wonders if she can feel the pounding of his veins.

But as the moments tick by, everything seems to slow down, as they enter another realm of existence together, a quiet, gentle, peaceful world of their own making. What do her fingers read as they examine him? He’s afraid to know. He’s aching to know.

She touches him slowly at first, her warm, patient fingers both calming the erratic voice inside him and drawing new desires out of him. He holds himself still as her fingers comb through his hair.

“Your hair is very soft,” she observes sweetly. “Like Phillippe.”

“Phillippe? Your beau?”

“My horse,” she replies with a raised eyebrow.

He laughs.

She keeps going, and his breath hitches when her fingers graze over the outer edges of his scar. She frowns when she feels the change in topography of his skin but doesn’t pull away. He twitches at her touch--but not to run away. He’s surprised at how soothing her skin feels, how much her caress feels like healing. Ever the faithful worker, while Belle runs her left hand down his cheek--pausing with care to study every groove and rugged chink marking his identity--her other hand is busy copying the contours onto the paper, following every twist and turn carefully and accurately.

“What color are your eyes?”

“Blue,” he responds deeply, his voice hoarse at the flood of sensations her touch is bringing, pulling his heart in all directions.  

“Blue?” she questions.

He realizes what she’s asking. It’s not enough to name the color. He must describe it to her, give the word meaning in way that would do the eyes justice, like poetry on a page. He clears his throat, feeling a little self-conscious for the first time in her presence. “Yes, blue, like um...like a summer sky in the middle of the day. Like the ocean. Like…”

The back of his hand grazes her dress.

“Like the color of your dress.”

She stops sketching, reaching down to rub the fabric in between her fingers. Another smile brightens her face. “Like home,” she says easily, and then resumes her sketching, as though her words haven’t just knocked the wind out of him.

“What color would you say my eyes are?”

“Brown,” he answers simply. “Warm brown. Like your hair. Like the wood that holds this house together. Like an endless forest. Like…” _Like my mother’s eyes._

He’s so enraptured by the smooth strokes of her right hand across the paper and the heat of her palm against his cheek that he doesn’t realize he’s leaning in to her….

“Sir!” comes the voice of Lumiere, and the prince jumps away from Belle, putting a safe and respectful distance back between them. To be honest, he had completely forgotten about his servant, about what their original purpose in this place even was. It feels like a lifetime has passed since he last saw Lumiere.

He takes a moment to catch his breath. “Yes?”

“We’ve secured a few rooms at the local tavern for the night, though I should warn you...the accommodations are quite...hm, _smaller_ than what you are used to.”

“It is a small village, Lumiere,” the prince huffs. “I shall be there directly.” He had not known how late it was. Glancing out the window, he realizes it’s nearly sunset.

Before he has a chance to inquire how his whereabouts were even uncovered, Lumiere merely nods and bows and then shuts the door behind him.

“One of your servants?” says Belle.

“Yes. Though I prefer to think of him as my friend. Whom I pay for the pleasure of his company.”

She laughs. “Well, at least you have an advantage over me. I have no friends.”

He frowns, unsure how that could be. Belle has to be one the most effortlessly charming and obliging souls he’s ever encountered. “None?”

She merely shrugs. “People here think I’m odd.”

“Why? Because you are blind?” His heart squeezes in a funny manner.

“Among other things,” she replies. “Because I wish to travel and...see the world. Even though they know I can’t actually _see_ it. Still, I think the air in Spain must smell very different than the air in France. I’d like to hear the roar of the ocean or feel the summer heat in Africa. I want to know what the world sounds like in places outside of this small village, in Paris…”

“Paris? You want to go to Paris?”

“Back to Paris, actually. I was born there. It’s where...my mother died. From the plague. It’s why my father and I came here. And it’s why...why I’m…”

“Why you lost your sight,” he finishes for her.

She nods.

“I’m sorry. I lost my mother when I was very young, too. Older than a child but not yet a man. I don’t remember much about her, but...the feeling of her absence never goes away.”

“What was she like? Do you remember?”

“I remember that she was quiet, demure, I suppose. But soft in a way that wasn’t weak. Good. She always used to make me laugh.”

Belle smiles again, though it’s not quite as bright as it was before.

“You know, I’m not sure anyone’s ever made me laugh since her.” Saying it aloud, he realizes that it’s true. _Until today. Until you._ He’s laughed more in the last hour in her company than he has in half a lifetime.

Out of nowhere, and yet perhaps buried in his chest all along, comes a deep-seated need to share his secret with her, just as she has shared hers with him. So he tells her about the rose, about his travels to find his soulmate, about his desperation. He even lets her do what he’s never allowed another person to do before--to hold the cool glass, to let her inquisitive hands study its perfect sculpt.

“The last petal could fall at any moment,” he finally finishes, staring at that one lone petal long after the sun has gone down. Sometime in the last few hours the other two petals have already fallen. And he hasn’t even bothered to check until now.

He realizes he should have left Belle hours ago. He knows how detrimental it can be to a woman’s reputation for hosting a man in her house alone after dark. And yet, Belle does not seem overly concerned. She has not pushed him away, and he cannot seem to tear himself away from her side. Not yet. Not when he feels so very close...to _something_ , something he’s been waiting ages for. The last sliver of hope inside him keeps his feet firmly planted.

“And you still haven’t found her?”

“I don’t know,” he tells her honestly.

She’s thoughtful for a while, that sweet little furrow formed in between her eyebrows. “Can I tell you a secret?”

“Of course.”

“Tomorrow’s my birthday.”

He starts, unsure how to respond. She doesn’t sound particularly thrilled about it. She sounds rather…sorrowful. “Oh. Well, happy birthday, Belle. I’m sorry your father’s not here to celebrate it with you.”

“Oh, he’ll be back tomorrow evening with my rose.”

His heart drops into his stomach. “Your rose.”

“Yes, my rose that he gets for me from the market every year on...my birthday…” She seems to realize something important, suddenly popping up from her seat and rummaging through a nearby desk drawer.

When she returns, he rises to meet her. “Can I show you something?” She does not wait for a reply, but suddenly holds out to him a small, ornate mirror, which he accepts with some reluctance.

“You know, I haven’t held a mirror in my hands in almost ten years,” he admits quietly.

“Really? Why ever not?”

He sighs gravely. “I don’t like to be reminded what I look like, I suppose.” Uttering those dark thoughts aloud...to a blind woman...he feels so incredibly foolish, how their problems seem so different and yet...so alike.

“We don’t have a lot of mirrors in the village, or so I’m told.”

“Where did you get this one?”

“It was given to me. I was told that the right man...would know what to do with it. Whatever that means. I suppose one looks at oneself in the mirror and has done with it. Though, Gaston borrowed it for nearly a _week_ and said he’d never seen anything more beautiful.” She raises an unamused eyebrow at that, and his lips twitch at her adorable expression.  

In the silence, he realizes she’s waiting for a response, so he studies the back of the mirror, its faded gold coloring and intricate carvings. “Yes, it is quite um….”

“I don’t think he was referring to the mirror,” she teases, an unidentifiable twinkle forming behind her eyes.

Oh. Perhaps he has overstayed his welcome. “This Gaston? Is he a friend of yours?”

“Not exactly.”

His heart sinks even further. “Something more than a friend.”

“No!” she answers desperately. “No, quite the opposite.”

“Oh,” is all he can say, too torn and too hopeful to express anything else on the subject of who holds her affections. “You said someone gave this to you?”

“Yes. A woman named Agathe gave that to me when she first came to this village. She said that it was the window to my soulmate. It’s silly, perhaps, keeping a mirror when I have no use for one. But I...I just never could bring myself to sell it. I like the way it feels in my hand. There’s power in a mirror, just like books, I suppose.”

He drinks in her wisdom before asking the one question he’s most anxious to know the answer to. “Agathe?”

“Yes, do you know her?”

“We are...old acquaintances,” he replies vaguely.

“Hm. A beggar woman and a nobleman. How ever did you meet?”

“That is a bit of a long story.”

“I do love stories.”

He chuckles and considers launching back into his tale of woe, sparing no details, but the mirror calls to him. He holds it up, slowly turning it around, and for the first time in years he finds that he’s not afraid. He doesn’t flinch when the scar immediately grabs his attention.

“See anything interesting?” Belle teases.

“Quite.” He smirks.

And in that moment, with Belle smiling at him just beyond the mirror, with her gaze almost meeting his, the prince wishes that this lovely, sweet girl did in fact see him, that she of all people _could_ see him. He’s too busy studying her over the mirror to notice the last petal fall.

In the next moment, Belle is crying out in agony, falling to her knees, curling into a ball. In his confused haze, the prince drops the mirror, and it shatters on the floor. He ignores the sharp sound of a thousand shards scattering like horizontal hail, seeing only Belle, focused solely on trying to stop her pain. Without thought, he pulls her up into his arms, and she goes willingly. He cradles her close, her head resting in the nook of his shoulder. As he leans his cheek against the top of her head, her hair brushes against his scar, tickling him in the strangest ways, as though she’s comforting him as much as he’s comforting her.

After a little while, her whimpering subside, and she pulls back, blinking rapidly, clinging to his clothes. Her gaze stays fixated on his shirt. It’s not until he lays his palm against her cheek that her head darts up and immediately...her eyes lock with his. With a start, he realizes she is _looking at_ him. Those deep brown eyes are wide and full of wonder, tears spilling over their edges and raining down her cheeks.

She can see. She can see him.

“Belle?”

She reaches out to touch his face, too, her fingers running over his skin. He’s too shocked to notice or care how smooth her fingers feel against his scar, how different her touch feels now than it did just a few hours ago.

“It is you,” she breathes.

“I don’t...I don’t understand. How…?”

“You’re him. You’re the one I’ve been waiting for.” She laughs once, beyond jovial, but he’s too shocked to understand what she’s saying.

Her touch slows to a more soothing, restful pace, and she studies him with her new eyes, her gaze intense and focused, bouncing over every nook and cranny with delight. He’s never felt so exposed. He’s never felt so cherished.

“All this time, hands don't really do sight justice, do they? I think I could look at you all day. Oh, my new friend. What cruelty you’ve faced,” she breathes, ever perceptive, almost as though now that she _can_ see, she can see straight into his soul, into his past, into his pain. Yet her steady eyes glisten with hope, healing him.

“It is nothing,” he answers honestly, finally believing every word he says. “Everything I’ve endured has led me to you. I suppose it’s too much to hope that a creature like me could one day hope to earn your affection.”

“I see no creature.”

When her palm comes to rest against his cheek, at last he allows himself to let go and just lean into her touch, soaking up her compassion. And when she kisses him, the pricklings of his scar begin to fade until he no longer feels their haunting pain. And it's not until the bursting first light of dawn that he realizes the scar is no longer there at all.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! 
> 
> I just loved spending time in this world and wasn't at all in a hurry to leave, so I hope you enjoyed it, too! I’d also love to continue this ‘verse one day and probably will once I tackle a few more prompts.


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